no good deed
by takingoffmyshoes
Summary: "So, here's the thing," Will starts, and Halt just knows, with the intuition born of long familiarity, that he's going to hate whatever comes next. (Will brings home some kittens. Halt is not quite as unamused by this as he pretends to be.)


_as penance for my no-holds-barred death fic, I present to you, as promised, complete and utter fluff_

* * *

_. . ._

* * *

_No good deed goes unpunished, _Halt thinks sourly, watching the two young men approaching through the front window of the cabin.

A little under a year after their return from Skandia, Will is close to his normal self – or, at least, to what had been his normal self before Skandia, a standard Halt _tries _not to hold him to – but there's still an undercurrent of wrongness to him, a sort of weight that pulls him down and draws his thoughts towards darker paths.

In all honesty, Halt doesn't think he _can _get rid of it, and doesn't even know if he should try. Experiences like that change a person, and expecting Will to put it behind him so quickly and so thoroughly is delusional at best and selfish at worst. But neither is it reasonable to expect Will to adapt and cope and recover completely on his own, and Halt has spent many a sleepless night since their return wondering where the middle ground might fall.

The best he's been able to come up with is to let Will lead the way and intervene only when Will seems determined to do himself damage, whether in thought or in action. It's not perfect, and it certainly isn't easy, but it's the best he can do.

So when, after a couple of low weeks, Horace showed up at the cabin asking permission to borrow Will for some vaguely defined (and in all probability, utterly fictitious) "mission," Halt had been only too happy to agree – under a careful guise of reluctance, of course.

Spending a bit of time with his oldest friend, away from the responsibilities of his training, would do Will a world of good, he figured.

And it seems to have done just that, if the easy laughter he can already hear clearly through the solid wood of the cabin walls is any indication. He's relieved to hear it, truly he is, and to see the loose, expansive gestures Will makes when he's fully at ease.

The sight of his apprentice unbowed by the pall of gloom that had been hanging over him lately is the best thing Halt could have hoped for, but the small, squirming bundles of fur he and Horace are attempting to corral are decidedly _not_.

Yes, of course, he's thrilled to see Will finally happy, but did he have to bring _dogs_?

This is what he gets, he supposes. If this is what it takes to keep Will in the light, he'll deal with it, but he can already envision the utter chaos of having two – or three, or _four, _gods help him – tiny pups running around, destroying furniture, leaving messes, eating him out of hearth and home and keeping him awake at all hours...

He shakes the thoughts away. If this is what Will needs – if this is what Will _wants _– he'll find a way to adjust.

As long as he doesn't want to keep them _all_.

Deciding he's lurked enough, he strides out onto the porch and stands with his arms crossed, watching the two riders close the remaining distance, their progress somewhat impeded by the fact that Will seems to be trying stuff all of his little passengers into Horace's arms before they arrive.

"What trouble have you brought me now?" he calls gruffly as they come to a stop a handful of meters away. "I'm glad to see you back safe and sound, but why in god's name did you decide you needed _souvenirs_?"

Will's broad smile dims somewhat, and he shifts a bit in his saddle. It's probably not coincidence that Will has positioned himself between Horace and Halt, shielding the puppies from closer inspection. "So, here's the thing," he starts, and Halt just _knows_, with the intuition born of long familiarity, that he's going to hate whatever comes next.

Horace, however, either oblivious to the tension or just entirely dismissive of it, leans out of Will's protective shadow and grins enormously. "Come on, Halt," he says. "You can't seriously have anything against _kittens,_ can you?"

"Yes, I can," Halt shoots back icily, then pauses. _Kittens?_ "Kittens?"

"We found them," Will puts in unnecessarily.

"I can see that."

"They were all alone—"

"Yes, ten of them, all alone."

"Six," Horace corrects. "Just six."

Halt raises an eyebrow.

"We tried to leave them," Will says, "thought their mother might be nearby, but we went back to check on them—"

"And they were still there," Horace finishes. "Lonely. Hungry. Frightened. Cold." He lays an almost imperceptible emphasis on the final word and meets Halt's eyes unwaveringly, all traces of humour fled. The effect is somewhat ruined by the fact that he's still all but juggling six irascible kittens, but the point lands.

Halt's final bastions of resistance give way, and he nods ever so slightly at Horace before shifting his gaze back to Will.

"And what were you planning to do with them? Do you have any idea how to care for a cat?"

Will beams, much as Halt had suspected he would. "Yes, in fact. Castle Redmont had loads, for catching mice and such, and we – the wards, that is – were allowed to pick one out as a pet."

Will doesn't know it, but Halt has a fond memory of watching, unseen, as Will shimmied up one of the trees on the castle grounds, followed closely by a calico cat that had disappeared easily in the fall foliage.

He suppresses a smile at the thought of it, now. "One cat, yes. But six? That's a whole different thing entirely."

"Oh, I'm not keeping all of them," Will assures him. "Just—" he turns back to Horace, and two young cats appear in his arms; one fully calico, one mostly white with spots of black. They're not quite kittens, Halt sees: a few months old at least, and big enough to explain his mistaking them for puppies. But they're still young, and while they're likely not incapable of looking out for themselves, that doesn't mean they should be forced to. "Just these two. Horace wants the other four."

Horace mutters something that Halt doesn't catch, though he doesn't seem to be disagreeing.

Finally, Halt relents, uncrossing his arms and motioning towards the paddock and stables. "Go on, then. See to your horses, then, if they haven't run off, bring the little beasts back here. I won't have them bringing fleas or ticks inside."

Horace and Will grin widely at each other, then nudge their horses in the direction Halt had indicated. Will's two kittens have already climbed up onto his shoulders, and seem to have no intention of running off.

With a sigh that's almost entirely for show, Halt goes inside, sets some water to heat, and starts gathering supplies: soap, towels, and a couple of basins.

If Will still wants to keep the cats after the ordeal to come, then on his head be it. Halt himself plans to stay well away.

Astonishingly, or perhaps not, most of the cats seem very enthusiastic about the idea of a bath. Horace and Will get splashed a bit here and there, of course, but the water is warm, the soap is mild, and the towels are soft. It takes less than half an hour for all six to be washed, dried, and checked thoroughly for unwanted guests. Between their own general fastidiousness and the determined scrubbing they'd just been given, each of the kittens is almost preternaturally clean and contentedly head-butting and rubbing against anyone in their immediate area (mostly Will and Horace, but occasionally Halt, as well) purring and squeaking their satisfaction.

"So," Halt says, with an air of long-suffering resignation. "I suppose I'm stuck with them, now, aren't I."

"Looks that way," Will agrees cheerfully, lowering his head to allow the white and black one to knock her own against it.

"Have you thought of names?"

"Parandeh and Kem," Will answers, without hesitation. "This one's Kem," he explains, indicating the one currently nuzzling at him, "because she's the smallest. And that one's Parandeh," he says, pointing to the calico, "because she chirps like a bird."

"At least you haven't forgotten all of your lessons," Halt observes drily. "I don't suppose it's too much to expect that you've remembered how to conjugate the verbs?"

Will shoots off a stream of Parsik that, although good-natured in tone, is almost certainly insulting. Halt narrows his eyes at him, but decides not to risk calling him on it. Languages aren't precisely his strong suit, after all; it's Pauline who's been teaching Will Parsik, one of the more common trade languages throughout the eastern continent, as her command of it is far greater than his own. Apparently Will's is, too, now. He shrugs, accepting it.

"Be that as it may," he says, "I'll expect a target demonstration in the morning, after Horace has left."

Horace, who's been watching the byplay with unconcealed glee, brightens even further. "I get to stay the night?"

"'And eat your entire pantry for breakfast,' is what he's really getting at," Will tells Halt, who nods solemnly.

"I know. Believe me, I know."

* * *

As Horace is getting his final preparations in order the next morning, and Will is out setting up the targets for his demonstration, Halt takes the young knight aside for a moment.

"Thank you," he says simply.

Horace nods. "He's doing better."

It isn't a question, but Halt answers anyway. "He is, but he's not there quite yet. This was good for him. I should have thought of it a long time ago."

"Thought of what?" Horace asks, all innocent guilelessness. Halt snorts.

"Take care of yourself, Horace. Don't be afraid to visit - not just for his sake, but for yours as well. I know you miss him."

"I do," Horace agrees, sobering. "It's weird. We've spent almost all our lives together, and now—" he snaps his fingers "—seven months go by, just like that, where I haven't seen him at all. I keep expecting to see him at Castle Araluen, but." He shrugs.

"Life has set you on seperate paths," Halt tells him, "but that doesn't mean they can't converge. You don't have to give up your old friends just because you grow up."

"I know. It's just weird, is all."

"I know." The silence hangs comfortably for a few moments, as they both mull over what's been said. "Well," Halt says, breaking it, "you need to be getting on your way, and Will needs to prove to me that he hasn't forgotten which end of an arrow is which."

Horace laughs. "Set your standards a little higher than that," he chides, then holds out a hand. Halt takes it, and isn't at all surprised when Horace pulls him into a hug. "Good to see you, Halt," he says warmly. "I've missed you, too, you know. That smiling face of yours adds years to my lifespan."

Halt pulls back with a scowl. "Not enough years to make up for the ones I'll take away," he threatens, but Horace just laughs again.

"Bye, Halt. Don't let on to Will that you actually love cats." And with that unsolicited advice, he cinches the drawstring of his pack, hefts it over his shoulder, and heads for the door.

Halt takes a few seconds to roll his eyes good and thoroughly, then follows.

Out on the path, Kicker stands saddled and ready – and with four furry heads poking out from one of the saddlebags – but seemingly content to wait as Will and Horace embrace, long and hard and entirely without embarrassment.

A chirping trill sounds from down by his ankles, and Halt glances down to see Parandeh looking up at him meaningfully. "Keep the commentary to yourself," Halt tells her. "I already get enough from Abelard, I don't need it from you, too." Parandeh chirps again, then presses up against his leg for a bit before trotting off down the steps and out across the field.

Horace and Will break apart as she comes up to them, and Will obligingly lifts her so she can farewell her littermates.

Horace says something that makes Will laugh, and when the cat leaps down from his arms, satisfied, the two of them hug again, but briefly. Horace tries to ruffle Will's hair, Will slaps his hand away unerringly, then Horace swings up into the saddle.

Halt goes back inside, and makes two cups of coffee.

They're not saying goodbye forever, but it's still a hard parting, he knows.

When Will comes in a few minutes later, considerably lower in spirits than he had been before, Halt just points to his cup on the table. And if Kem is curled up on the chair next to the one he takes, well.

There's nothing to say that Halt _put_ her there.

* * *

. . .

* * *

_Kem: an anglicized spelling of the Farsi word for "little"_

_Parandeh: an anglicized spelling of the Farsi word for "bird"_

_Parsik: the in-world Farsi-equivalent language that I have decided is one of the handful of trade languages that actually comprise "the common language." i wrote a whole post about it on my tumblr, if you're interested._

_thanks for reading! as always, please feel free to leave whatever feedback you'd like to. _


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